Kyle Broflovski Puke
by caffeineswing9
Summary: A raging party hangover leaves Stan with a little less memory of Last Night than he would've preferred. Too bad, since he apparently had more fun than he thought. Oneshot! Stan/Kyle, South Parkian-rated language.


At first, Stan didn't feel anything crawl into his right ear. He was still in a cocoon of half-consciousness, drunkenly splayed out across the hardwood floors which had become at least a _little_ warmer from his persistent body heat. No, at the moment, he wasn't even aware enough to kick Bebe's precariously placed ass away from his thigh, let alone notice that a cockroach was attempting to fritter its way up his earlobe. He was in that milky state of Not-Yet-Awake, which slowly creeped toward Trying-Not-To-Be-Awake, which abruptly tore into a WHAT-THE-FUCK-IS-ON-MY-FACE when the roach stumbled a little too far into Stan's crevice.

He ripped off the supplementary jacket he'd been using as a blanket as he cocked to a ninety-degree angle, violently scraping at the side of his hair. "Fucking _shit_," he said breathlessly. The roach had landed on the floor and made a break for Token's pillow. There was no way Stan was going after it. Token could deal with his own goddamn bugs; it was _his_ house. Why the hell didn't they hire an exterminator for that sort of thing? It wasn't like it was out of their price range.

_Dude_. That was disgusting. This _room_ was disgusting. And as far as Stan could remember (and he couldn't remember much), it hadn't been this disgusting ten hours ago before the keg showed up. His ungloved hands stuck to the wood flooring. God, had he actually _slept_ on that?

He wearily surveyed the loft as he tried to wipe the shit off his palms. There were at least six other people crammed against each other. How he'd ended up next to Bebe was a mystery to him. Her jeans were low-cut enough as it was, but he could clearly see the elastic band of her risqué choice in underwear between her ass crack. And out of all the ass cracks at the party, he got to hibernate next to Bebe's. _Better her than Cartman, I guess_.

Ughn.

He already felt pretty bad. It wasn't really a hangover. Nah. Just a horrible chalky feeling in his stomach lining. He'd had plenty worse when it came to mornings, each rightfully earned after too many freshman Rush events. He didn't really want to get into a frat, but hey, back in first semester, he'd been going through a pretty bad case of Kyle withdrawal. Free alcohol was almost as good as Kyle. Almost.

His stomach made a worse sort of chalky pain when he noticed Kyle's outstretched arm, which had flopped over off of Stan's shins during the roach-ear infiltration. He hadn't seen Kyle since winter break, and even though it'd only been four and a half months since then, it'd felt like an eternity. Stan, when less preoccupied with a drunken stupor, once recalled one of his roommates back in Denver talking about seeing his girlfriend after three months, and how it'd been like "no time had passed at all" and it'd "been just like they'd seen each other last weekend". Yeah, well, that didn't exactly work for Stan. Everyone else had time fly by, while he was stuck waiting endlessly for summer to begin.

That, and his roommate was a fucking douche. Yeah, sure, Stan was jealous of how happy the guy was all the time, but that was probably due to the fact he was fucking at least two other girls. Stan felt kind of bad for the girlfriend back home.

And then he felt kind of weird for comparing Kyle to a girlfriend.

He leaned back against the dresser, which he probably shouldn't have slept next to after people had piled their half-empty red cups on the top. By morning he'd been doused in dripping Jack and Natty Light, and one cupfull he'd been sure was comprised of piss and tabasco sauce— _Goddammit, Kenny_.

He glanced back at the floor. Kyle was still asleep. Everyone was still asleep, for that matter, as a quick confirmation from the wall clock let Stan know it was only 7:04. Hadn't he done enough last night to warrant a full-on blackout? Or at _least_ enough to be numb on his face. Then again, he didn't want a roach crawling in his unaware mouth. His mouth had been clean since last October. He didn't need to break a record like that.

He cracked a wincing grin at the memory of swallowing horse drool for a TKE initiation, silently rejoicing that for once, last night, nothing had come of a party regarding his mouth—

And then, instantaneously wide-eyed, his grin dropped.

His _mouth_.

A very distinct memory of 2:30 AM flashed across Stan's mind. And despite the fact that he'd been drunken beyond recognition of _any_ other event that happened last night, he remembered _this_.

Fuck.

_Fucking_ fuck.

That didn't happen. It _couldn't_ have happened. It wasn't _allowed_ to happen, under any circumstances, anytime, anywhere. Unless he was dying, or unless he was Mr. Garrison.

And he wasn't either of those things. He wasn't bleeding out. He wasn't Mr. Garrison.

He wasn't _gay_.

_But he'd kissed Kyle_.

No. No no NO no— He remembered every last detail of Kyle's face as he'd practically forced himself on his best friend. At 2:30 AM, after eight shots and three beers, he'd mouth-molested Kyle.

_Kyle_.

And as much as he remembered sinking into a sea of fleeting happiness for winning his "prize" (did someone dare him? Was it a drinking game? Why the _hell_ did he do something so irreparably _stupid_?), he sure as hell was regretting it now.

No. More than regret. He looked at Kyle, who would probably remember everything as soon as he woke up, and felt the immediate need to puke.

He made a break for the bathroom, not bothering to watch out for any stragglers left sleeping closer to the door. He kicked Clyde in the nose on the way out.

Christmas colors exploded from his esophagus, but he didn't care about missing the hole and getting some on the seat, which he hadn't even had time to lift up. Why the fuck had he let himself act like that last night? Sure, he wasn't usually the most sober of partygoers, but at least he had enough of a head on his shoulders to play it _straight_ when he was being a drunk dick.

He didn't even _like_ Kyle in that sort of way. Missed him more than his own family, yes, but that wasn't enough to warrant a make-out session.

He didn't _love_ Kyle like that.

Stan vomited again when a memory regarding Kyle and him purchasing Guitar Hero together crossed his mind. He was sicker than he thought. He'd _definitely_ had too much to drink.

He hadn't upchucked _this_ hard since— well, since—

And then, just for a moment, as he wiped a few soppy chunks off his cheek with his sleeve, he thought of something.

—He hadn't upchucked _this_ hard since Wendy.

At the thought of Wendy.

At the thought of his _crush_.

Stan nearly choked on bile.

Wendy Testaburger Puke. Kyle Broflovski Puke?

He hated to say it, but Kyle Broflovski Mouth had tasted a _lot_ better than Kyle Broflovski Puke.

Stan missed the hole again.


End file.
